MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
For the Ritral New-Yorker. 
OUR HOME. 
My heart is sacl and lonely 
In its chidhood's home to-day, 
/ For save my little children 
The loved ones are away; 
And, now that nestling in his bed 
Each quiet sleeper lies, 
My heart is busy with the past. 
And tears are in my eyes. 
I'm thinking of the dear old time 
When all of us were young. 
And when around this humble home, 
Our best affections clung; 
And fondly do we love it yet, 
Though many a change has come 
And we are scattered far and wide 
Each in another home. 
I’m thinking of the dear ones laid 
To rest beneath the sod, 
Who, mingling no more with us here 
Hava found a home with God. 
The bright, glad little one with whom 
We were first called to part, 
And she who filled the dearest place 
Within a brother’s lieavt. 
The guardian of our early years 
Is sleeping with them now, 
The seal of death upon his lips, 
The cold earth o’er his brow; 
My thoughts are lingering with him 
And tears are felling fast, 
Oh! many a painful memory 
Is round my old home cast. 
And many a cherished blessing, too, 
Is interwoven there, 
No happier children ever grew 
Beneath parental care. 
Ere long our homo will pass away 
To stranger hands, and we 
Will have of ail it’s been to us 
Naught shut a memory. 
dan. 1st, 1853. S. Webster Ixoyd. 
FRANKLIN-THE HOME OF HIS BOYHOOD. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
THOUGHTS ON ORNAMENTAL TREES. 
Riding in the cars a few days since,' my 
eyes were greeted at last by the sight of a 
tree bofore a houso — one evergreen, orna¬ 
mental tree. Its presence seemed enchant¬ 
ing— though it was no great of a tree—not 
more beaptiful, and not nearly as large as 
many I that day saw in swamps and forests. 
It was its situation before that house, to 
ornament that homo, which made mo ob¬ 
serve it so closely, and romembor it so well. 
That tree told me something, though I was 
passing rapidly by; it whispered me that 
there was a home, and that some occupant 
of that homo had possessed enough tasto, 
enough love for trees, to plant this one ever¬ 
green, ornamental tree. lie who planted 
that tree, may now bo far away — may be 
dead — yet there it stands, telling to each 
beholder its simple talo of lovo for trees, 
and recommending the character and tasto 
of him who planted it. 
Why arc not moro trees planted before 
our homes, the homes of our farmers and 
laboring men ?—more evergreen, ornamen¬ 
tal trees. Man works but an hour in plant¬ 
ing thorn, and then, if they retain life, Na¬ 
ture works on for years—perhaps for ages, 
in perfecting their growth and beauty, and 
in making trees that shall remain ever pro¬ 
gressing, and ever repeating their rnuto yet 
plainly spoken lessons of virtue, peace and 
lovo. Why it is. that all do not plant trees, 
I cannot imagine. If I were to attribute it 
to expense, peoplo would hoot me. Is it 
through negligence, or want of tasto ?— 
Wha f evor the eauso my bo, lot us strive to 
have.it removed. 
In Genesis XXIst, 33, we read.—“And 
Abraham planted a grove in Beersheba, and 
called there on the name of the Lord, the 
everlasting God.” Thus we see that we have 
a good exainplo for the planting of trees, 
and lot us strive to create a tasto, a lovo in 
ourselves, our neighbors, and all about us, 
for ornamental trees. Mothers and sisters 
should aid in cultivating this taste. Moth¬ 
er, fill up the heart of your child with the 
love of frees, birds, flowers, and other beau¬ 
tiful things of nature, and I must believe 
that there will bo less of lovo in their hearts 
for the many vitiating practices which creep 
in and poison, sear and "reezo mon’s hearts 
until they have no tasto for the beautiful in 
nature. Remember that your child loves 
naturally the beauties which nature produ¬ 
ces — foster that lovo, encourage it by your 
example, and you will stand far greater 
chance of seeing that son a happy, home- 
loving man. Teach your son to appreciate 
the varied scenery of earth and sky, and you 
will do much toward fortifying him against 
the vices of life. Make home inviting, and 
lie will be far less likely to yield to the 
temptations so alluring and so injurious to 
the young. John Sanfield. 
Hill Farm, Steuben Co., N. Y. 
Set not your judgment abovo that of all 
tho earth; neither condemn that as false¬ 
hood which agrees not with your own appre¬ 
hension. Who gave you tho power of de¬ 
termining for others ? <8r who has taken 
from the world tho right of .choice ? 
Your character cannot bo seriously harm¬ 
ed except by your own acts. If any one 
speaks evil of you. lot your life be so that 
none will believe him. 
SPRING. 
There are a few places yet loft in Boston, 
of universal interest. Do you see that house 
on the corner of Union and Hanover street, 
with a gilt ball protruding from its corner, 
diagonally into the street? It has no archi¬ 
tectural pretensions to arrest a passer-by.— 
It is a plain brick houso, of three stories, 
with small windows, close together, and ex¬ 
ceeding small panes of glass in thorn, tho 
walls of a dingy yollow. Yet it is a house 
swarming in associations interesting to well 
nurtured minds throughout the civilized 
world. Read the name upon the bell, and 
you will get an inkling of my meaning— 
“Josias Franklin, 1698.” Yes, that is tho 
very roof undor which Benjamin Franklin 
grew up. Ho was not born there, but his 
father removed there whon ho was but six 
months old, so that all his recollections of 
home must have been connected with those 
walls. The side of the house on Union 
street remains as it was in the days of 
Franklin’s boyhood; but that on Hanover 
street has been shamefully treated. Near¬ 
ly the whole of the front has been cut out 
to make room for two monstrously dispro- 
portioned show-windows. And this house, 
so full, as I have just said, of associations, 
is fuller yet of bonnets ! Yes, by the head 
of tho prophet, of bonnets ! It is a bonnet 
warehouse, and from the inordinate windows, 
aforesaid, bonnets of all hues and shapes 
ogle you with side-long glances, or else stare 
you out of countenance, while mountain piles 
of band-boxes tower to the ceiling of the 
upper story, eloquent, like faith, of things 
unseen. Heaven forbid I should say any¬ 
thing in derogation of bonnets, any more 
than of the fair heads that wear them, but 
I would that they had another repository. 
It was my good fortune to go over this 
house, before it had undergone this meta¬ 
morphosis. It was occupied, in part at least, 
some eight or ten years ago, by a colored 
man, of tho name of Stewart, a dealer in 
old clothes, who thought of buying the pre¬ 
mises, and wanted my advice about it. I 
gladly availed myself of tho opportunity to 
view them. The interior of the house was 
then, I should judge, in the same condition 
that it was when tho worthy old soap boiler, 
and that sturdy rebel—in youth as in age 
—his world-famous son, lived there. There 
wero the very rooms in which the child 
Franklin played, the very stairs up and 
down which he romped, the very window 
seats on which he stood to look out into the 
street. The shop on the street was unques 
tionably tho place whore he used to cut 
wicks for tho candles, and fill tho moulds 
and wait upon tho customers. I pleased 
myself in imagining which room it was in 
which tho father sat, patriarch like, at his 
tablo, surrounded by his thirteen children, 
all of whom “grew up to years of maturity, 
and were married.” And you may be sure 
[did not fail to take a peep into the cellar 
where Poor Richard, in his infantile econo¬ 
my of time, proposed to his father that he 
should say grace over the whole barrel of 
beef thoy wero putting down in the lump, 
instead of over each piece in detail, as it 
came to the tablo,—a proposition which in¬ 
clined tho good brother of the Old South 
Church to fear that his youngest hope was 
given over to a reprobate mind, and but lit¬ 
tle better than one of the wicked. 
And I would have given a trifle to know 
which of the chambers it was that was 
Franklin’s own, where ho educated himself, 
as it were, by stealth. Where ho used to 
read ‘ Bunyan’s works, in separate little 
volumes, and, Burton’s Historical collec¬ 
tions,’—‘ small Chapman’s books, and cheap; 
forty volumes in all’—and Plutarch’s Lives, 
not to mention ‘a book of De Foo’s called 
•an Essay on Projects,’ and, ‘Dr. Mather’s 
called an ’Essay to do good,’ and where, too, 
his lamp—or more probably his candle’s 
end—was ‘oft seen at midnight-hour,’ as he 
sat up the greatest part of tho nights de¬ 
vouring the books which his friend, the 
bookseller’s apprentice, used to lend him 
over night, out of the shop, to bo returned 
the next morning. How the rogue must 
have enjoyed them ! Seldom have literary 
pleasure been relished with such a gusto, as 
by that hungry boy. 
It will not bo many years boforo this 
monument of tho most celebrated man that 
Boston, not to say America, ever produced, 
will bo demolished, and the place which 
knows it will know it no more unless some¬ 
thing be done to save it. It will bo a burn¬ 
ing shame, and lasting disgrace to Boston, 
with all its pretensions to liberality, and its 
affectations of reverence for its great men. 
to suffer tho most historical of its houses to 
ho destroyed, when the rise of real estate 
in that neighborhood shall seal its doom.— 
It is a shame that it has been left so long to 
take the chances of business. It should 
have been bought years ago, and placed in 
tho hands of the Historical Society, or some 
other permanent body, in trust, to bo pre¬ 
served forever, in its original condition. It 
is not too late to restore it to something like 
its first estate, and to save it from utter 
destruction. If it bo not done, it will be a 
source of shamo and sorrow when it is too 
late. 
Tho houso in which Franklin was horn 
has been destroyed within this century.— 
That house stood in Milk street, a little be¬ 
low the Old South Church, on the other 
side of the way. and the spot is marked by 
a Furniture Warehouse,’ fivo 6tories high, 
which forms a fitting pendant to the Bonnet 
Warehouse, in Hanover street. The print¬ 
ing office of James Franklin—where Frank¬ 
lin sorvod his apprenticeship, where he used 
to put his annonymous communications un¬ 
der the door, where he used to study when 
tho rest were gone to dinner, and where ho 
used sometimes to got a flogging from his 
brother—was in Queen, now Court street, 
nearly oppsito the Court House, on the cor 
ner of Franklin Avenue, which, if I am not 
mistaken, dorives its name from the circum¬ 
stance. 
Spring is coming, flinging first a sunbeam 
and then a snow-wreath. Season of new¬ 
ness, vigor and hope ! how many thousands 
have sung of thee. And tho theme is not 
worn, nor will bo while the human heart 
loves beauty. The story of spring will nev¬ 
er grow tamo, so long as between the death 
of the flowers and their resurrection, meek¬ 
eyed babes are laid to sleep in snow-cover¬ 
ed grave-yards. So long as the bride, the 
wife, tho mother, the silvery-haired old man, 
are laid upon a couch on which spring will 
weave many a wild-wood garland. 
Spring has come. The river with its 
mossy fringe wears the blue livery of the 
season. The lai-ch is just budding; large, 
moist and waxen, the pink clusters exude 
a pleasant gum. The path from tho door 
shows its pebbly face, and in sheltered 
nooks, where solitude has nursed them, hide 
little tufts of soft, green grass. The water 
trickles pleasantly from the smoking roofs, 
and glad voices are heard, and warm sun- 
gushes enter through open doors and win¬ 
dows. How deliciously mellow the azure of 
the sky ! how clear and white the tiny clouds 
that float by like bubbles, their edges gold- 
dened by the sun. 
Spring has come to gladden the hearts of 
the lowly. Sitting by the poor house cor¬ 
nel', yon old man can enjoy tho scents of 
field and meadow, can watch the kino with 
their brown nosos trailing on the ground, 
and see the thin vapors curl up from the 
dew distilling hills, with as happy a heart as 
the poet who sings “ they all belong to mo.” 
Every day tho sky will gather blueness, 
and tho fields a brighter emerald. From 
littlo crevices, invisible to-day, blooms, laden 
with tho breath of May, will spring, and 
shoot into stems, leaves and flowers. Thick¬ 
er and brighter the fairy robes of summer- 
land will flake tho limbs of the pear, peach 
and applo tree, all joweled with blossoms.— 
June will hang tassels on the larch, and em¬ 
broider the willow till it droops from very 
weight of beauty and weeps that it cannot 
woo the sky. 
Spring is here. Como weary student; 
come maiden, pale with heart sorrow, spring 
will breathe the breath of life upon your 
anguid frames, and with her magical dyes, 
paint your cheek with health. Come happy 
child, seek flowers bright as your youth; 
come matron, wearied with winter cares, 
come out in the broad snn-hght, and repent 
that you have I thought life all a shadow, be¬ 
cause its pulse beat under the frost. 
Glorious spring! exhaustless pleasuro 
wait upon thy presence. Welcome ! thrice 
welcome.— Olive Branch. 
DEEP AND EARNEST THOUGHT. 
It is a rare attainment to get the power 
of close and consecutive thinking. No man 
can do it but with great pains. It is one of 
the great ends of education and mental dis¬ 
cipline to confer this power. 
Tho romances and other trash of tho 
teeming presses of our day are hostile to 
this habit. The excitoment of fiction is 
pleasurable. Deep thought requires pains¬ 
taking and self denial. Thousands had ra¬ 
ther sail over the sunny seas of romance, 
and under its bright skies, even though they 
reach the port penniless, than to encounter 
advorse gales and rough waves, though tho 
rich cargo shall bo tho recompense. 
But deep and earnest thought, the power 
and practice of it, is of vast advantage in 
many ways. It secures sure and great ad¬ 
vances in valuable knowledge. It strength¬ 
ens and invigorates all the mental powers. 
It causes the mind to tako largo and com¬ 
prehensive views of things, by enabling it 
delibera^ly to gather all the facts and prin¬ 
ciples pOTtaining to any particular subject, 
and to view them in their various relations. 
It gives amazing power to all moral subjects. 
“ I thought on my ways, I took heed unto 
thv testimonies.” 
Deep and earnest thought is the parent 
of deep religious emotions. The unthink¬ 
ing can nevor feel deeply. 
A TEMPERANCE LECTURE. 
At a temperance meeting held in Alaba¬ 
ma, about six years ago, Col. Lemanousky, 
who had been twenty-three years in the ar¬ 
mies of Napoleon, addressed the meeting, 
tie arose boforo the audience, tall, erect, 
and vigorous, with a glow of health upon 
his cheek, and said—“ You see before you a 
man seventy years old. I havo fought two 
hundred battles: have fourteen wounds on 
my body ; have lived thirty days on horse¬ 
flesh, with the bark of trees for my bread, 
snow and ice for my drink, tho canopy of 
heaven for my covering, without stockings 
or shoes on my feet, and only a few rags of 
clothing. In the deserts of Egypt, I have 
marched for days with a burning sun upon 
my naked head ; feet blistored in the scorch¬ 
ing sand, and with eyes, nostrils and mouth 
filled with dust, and with a thirst so tor¬ 
menting that I have opened tho veins of my 
arms and sucked my own blood ! Do you 
ask how 1 survived all these horrors? I an¬ 
swer that under the providence of God I 
owe my preservation, my health and vigor 
to this fact, that l never drank a drop of 
spirituous liquor in my life; and” continued 
ho, “ Baron Laray, chief of tho medical staff 
of the French, has stated as a fact that the 
6,000 survivors who safely returned from 
Egypt, wero all those men who abstained 
from ardont spirits.” 
THE CHILD’S GARDEN. 
Beneath the budding lilacs 
A little maiden sighed— 
Tlie first flower in her garden 
That very morn had died. 
A primrose tuft, transplanted, 
And watered every day, 
One yellow bud had opened, 
And then it pined away. 
I thought, as that child’s sorrow 
Rose wailing on the air, 
My heart gave forth an echo, 
Long bound in silence there. 
For though time brings us roses, 
And golden fruits beside, 
We’ve all some desert garden 
Where Life’s first primrose died! 
\ MODEL WIFE OF THE 17TH CENTURY. 
All tho true honor of happiness there is 
in this world, follows labor. Were it not 
for working mon, there could be no progross 
in either science or art. Working men are 
earth’s true nobility. Those who live with¬ 
out work are all paupers. 
Do you wish to learn how gito ve any¬ 
thing?—then fancy yourself in the place of 
the receiver. 
The world has heard much of the ad¬ 
mirable Elliot, commonly known as the 
“Apostle of the Indians;” but little men¬ 
tion has been made of his very excellent 
wife, who contributed not a little to the 
great triumphs which attended his labors. 
Mrs. Sigourney has just issued a book, en¬ 
titled “ Examples of Life and Death,” in 
which shegives a vory interesting and graph¬ 
ic. account of that much-honored woman, 
to whom justice has at last been done. Tho 
following are some of the main points of her 
tumble and exemplary history: 
Days of Early Marriage .—John Elliot 
and Ann Mountlort were married immedi- 
itely after her arrival, and commenced their 
housekeeping in what was then called Rox 
borough, about a mile from Boston. Sim¬ 
ple. almost to rudeness, were the beslf ac¬ 
commodations that tho pastor had it in his 
power to offer. But the young wife was 
satisfied, for the home that her presence 
illumined was a paradise to her husband. 
* Sometimes tho wintry winds sway¬ 
ed the branches of the naked trees, swept 
them against their lonely roof with a mel¬ 
ancholy sound. The apostle might perhaps 
he absent among his Indian flock at Natick, 
fifteen miles distant, for the elements 
stayed him not. Then nearer to herself 
she gathered her nurslings, “a nest of five 
brothers, with a sister in it.” teaching and 
chef ring them. In tho busi es of her loved 
mice, or in the pauses of the storm, they 
listened for tho father’s footstep, and piled 
higher the fire of logs, with blazing brush¬ 
wood, that as the evening deepened, his 
own window might gleam out to him as a 
blessed star. 
Housekeeping .—ifcrs Elliot, amid her de¬ 
votedness to the care and nurture of her 
six children, found time for those many 
duties that devolved on a New-England 
housekeeper of the olden time, when it was 
difficult, and almost impossible, to command 
the constant aid of domestics. To provide 
fitting apparel and food for her family, and 
to make this care justly comport with a 
small income, a free hospitality, and a large 
charity, required both efficiency and wis¬ 
dom. This she accomplished without hur¬ 
ry of spirit, fretful ness, or misgiving. But 
she had in view more than this —so to per 
form her own part as to leave the mind of 
her husband free^or the cares of his sacred 
profession. This she also performed. Her 
understanding of the science of domestic 
comfort, and her prudence, the fruit of a 
correct judgment, so increased by daily ex¬ 
perience, that she needed not to lay her 
burdens upon him, or to drain tho strength 
with which he would fain serve at the alter. 
“The heart of her husband did safely trust 
in her,” and his tender appreciation of her 
policy and its details was her sweet reward. 
Activity, Energy, and Judgment, Social 
and Domestic. — Among the multitude of 
employments which a systematic division of 
time enabled her to discharge, without omis¬ 
sion or confusion, was a practical knowl¬ 
edge of medicine, which made her the guar¬ 
dian of the health of her young family.— 
The difficulty of commanding the attend¬ 
ance of well-educated physicians, by the 
sparse population of an infant colony, ren¬ 
dered it desirable, and almost indispensable, 
that a mother should be neither unskilled 
nor fearful amid the foes that so thickly 
beset tho first years of life. The success of 
Mrs. Eliot in the rearing and treatment of 
her own children, caused her experience to 
be coveted by others. In her cheerful gift 
of advice and aid, she perceived a field of 
usefulness opening around her, especially 
among the poor, to whom with a large chari¬ 
ty she dispensed safe and salutary medi¬ 
cines. * * * Often they found them¬ 
selves side by side at the couch of suffering, 
and a double blessing from those ready to 
perish came upon them. 
Decline and Departure .—He would fain 
have hidden from himself her visible decline. 
Yet day after day he saw the light from 
heaven’s windows beam more strongly upon 
her brow, and felt that she was to reach 
homo before him. Ho who had borno all 
other trials firmly had not strength to take 
a full prospect of this. He could not wil¬ 
lingly unclasp his hand from hers, and lay 
it in the cold grasp of the king of terrors. 
Ilis prayer was, that if it were possible, they 
might go togethor down through the dark 
valley of tho shadow of death, and up to 
the great whitothrono, and Him who sitteth 
thereon. 
But her hour had come, and in that, as 
well as in tho duties of life, she was enabled 
to glorify God. Serenely she resigned the 
burden of this failing flesh, and entered a 
world of spirits. The desolate, mourning 
husband, it would soem, had never before 
fathomed the depths of grief. She who had 
not only been his helpmate, but his crown, 
whom ho had so long prized and cherished, 
rejoicing in her good works, and in the hon¬ 
ors sho received, had gono and left him 
alone. 
“ God,” says a contemporary writer, 
“ made her a rich blessing, not only to her 
family, but to tho neighborhood ; and when 
at last she died, I heard and saw her aged 
husband, who very rarely wept, yet now 
with many tears over her coffin, before tho 
good people, a vast confluence of whom 
wore come to her funeral, say, * Hero lies 
my dear, faithful, pious, prudent, prayerful 
wife. I shall go to her, but she shall not 
return to mo.’ And so he followed her to 
the grave, with lamentations beyond those 
with which Abraham deplored his aged 
Sarah.” Touching and eloquent eulogium! 
and justly deserved. 
Sympathy of the Pastor’s Flock .—The 
sympathy of his flock was freely accorded 
to tho smitten shepherd, for each one felt 
that tho loss which bowed him down was 
their own. This popular affection was sig¬ 
nified in a beautiful and somewhat unique 
form.—a vote to erect a ministerial tomb, 
and a unanimous and quaintly expressed 
resolution, that “ Mrs. Eliot, for tho great 
service she hath done this town, shall bo 
honored with a burial there.” 
Sincere tribute from honest hearts !— 
More to he coveted than the plumed hearse, 
and all tho splended mockery of woo. So 
to the keeping of that tomb “wherein man 
was never yet laid” were entrusted tho mor¬ 
tal remains of that saintly woman, whoso 
consistent example of every duty pertain¬ 
ing to her sex and sphere will be remem¬ 
bered thi'oughout future generations. 
A RIDICULOUS ASSERTION. 
“ The deadliest foo to lovo is not change, 
but custom.”—B ulwer. 
Such language will do for Bulwer; he 
could invent no better when ho wrote that. 
Ho was tho son of satiety, the foster-brother 
of voluptuousness. A golden chalice was 
given him ; he distilled a dew from the bit¬ 
terest herbs that grew rankly along his path¬ 
way, and filling his chalice, called it a halm. 
He threw out his poison broadcast; sons and 
daughters—the sunny-haired aud the white- 
browed—drank, oh ! too deeply drank, and 
—died a death too horrible to mention ; a 
death from which virtue tied shrieking. 
“ The deadliest foe to love is not change, 
but custom.” We love thobeing whogave us 
birth. The last sweet name upon icy lips 
is “Mother, mother.” Because we grow ac¬ 
customed to her gentle voice, do we there¬ 
fore weary of her who has made our path 
to manhood and womanhood as light and 
beautiful as was in her power ? Is custom 
there the deadliest foe to love? 
In groups all over the world sit families 
together; tho father who has toiled and 
grown grey ; the matron whose life has been 
one long labor of love ; the youth, the bold 
boy, the happy-hearted girl, the son just on 
the threshold of manhood; the maiden 
blooming into ripened beauty. There they 
sit, caring for each other, living in each 
othor’s love. Mark how sickness enters; 
seizes the fairest of the little fiock. Look 
at the chamber where they have laid her; 
how still and sheltered ! how white the lin¬ 
ens ; how fresh the cool red flowers that 
touch her feverish lips. The tablo is cov¬ 
ered with delicate porcelain, all the vials 
are put out of sight, and soft fingers press 
the flushed brow, and smooth hack the damp 
locks, that they may not lio too heavily 
against the throbbing temples. 
Mark the silence of that household ; see 
the springing tears when little voices whis¬ 
per " Minnie is sick.” How they glide like 
angels around that couch. Carefully tho 
massive door is swung to when tho father 
steps into tho street ; the bell-wire is loos¬ 
ened. Why should that father care if a 
great shadow with awful portent stands on 
tho threshold? All her life has he been ac¬ 
customed to the sweet one’s smile; why does 
his cheek pale when he returns, hardly dar¬ 
ing to breathe, much fiss to ask, “ Is it well 
with the child?” Has custom deadened his 
love? 
And why, when the last change comes, 
and the still plaits of the shroud lie upon 
the little bosom, do they all weep and moan, 
so that one would think their hearts were 
every one breaking with the sorrow? They 
were accustomed to the little one; they 
knew every phase of her character, and 
could almost divine what her rosy lips 
opened to say to them. Why did they not 
weary with that heart survey—that same¬ 
ness ot kisses, and twining of arms, and lisp¬ 
ing love-words? If it was all so common, 
why did they miss her so? 
Because true lovo never wearies of its ob¬ 
jects, be it mother, father or child, betrothed 
or wedded. 
Hand in hand go many a couple through 
a long, long life; loving at the first, loving 
at the last. One by one tho rough places 
are made smooth ; little detects of charac¬ 
ter which, alone, neither would have sought 
to remedy, are brought into harmony with 
the softer traits of tho other. Beautiful 
union ! who will say, that has had a reasona¬ 
ble experience of happiness, that “ familari- 
ty begets contempt?” 
“ What all passion, tho soul demands 
something unexpressed, somo vague recess 
to explore or to marvel upon,” says Bulwer. 
This sublimated nonsense was written by 
ono who was a most wretched example of 
connubial woe. Such things from such 
sources, strike us as unpleasantly as the 
howling of a dog on a moonlight night. 
There’s no sense in them.— Olive Branch. 
One of the prettiest of Christmas customs 
is the Norwegian practice of giving, on 
Christmas-day, a dinner to the birds. On 
Christmas morning, every gable, gateway or 
barn-door, is decorated with a sheaf of corn 
fixed on the top of a tall polo, wherefrom it 
is intended that the birds shall make their 
Christrrgis dinner. Even tho peasants will 
contrive to have a handful sot by for this 
purpose, and what the birds do not eat on 
Christmas-day, remains for them to finish at 
their leisure through the winter. 
